


with eyes so blind I can barely see

by sElkieNight60



Series: Dawn Breaks Through the Window [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Bat Family Feels, Bruce Wayne Acting as A Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comfort/Angst, DaddyBats, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Bruce Wayne, Se.N, Whump, bat dad, batfam, dad!bats, protective bat brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: The first wayward thought that flutters through Bruce's mind the moment he lays eyes on his eldest son, is, oddly: 'I haven't seen him smile in weeks.'





	with eyes so blind I can barely see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TokiNoKusabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokiNoKusabi/gifts).

> For TokiNoKusabi, who said: "It would be interesting to read any of this from Bruce's perspective, but particularly the part where Dick is rescued and he's definitely not all there."
> 
> Um. Shockingly, I don't think I did your request justice. However, please take this Whump-Trash instead.

The first wayward thought that flutters through Bruce's mind the moment he lays eyes on his eldest son, is, oddly, _'I haven't seen him smile in weeks_.'

Time, like a physical thing, grinds to an immediate and jarring halt, the psychological embodiment of bone against stone.

_'Now I may never again_,' the dark thought invades, the very real fear sinking into his stomach like a stone as the chill of the room seeps through his Kevlar costume and works its way into his bones the second the metal door reveals the other side.

Except it isn't the temperature that seizes his lungs, every muscle in his chest hitching. No, it is the sight hanging before him;

A limp body. _Dick_. Strung up, head bowed, naked, _unmoving_.

In the time it takes for his eyes to process the sight, not a single coherent thought passes through his brain, only the overwhelming and instinctive fear that _he's too late_.

Then, beside him, three bodies blaze past—the movement so quick that it's barely more than a blur of black, red and green in his peripheral. Bruce feels their presence like a bolt of lightning and folds himself back into the cape, prioritising Dick, hanging in the center of the room, over his feelings of self-disgust and deficient parenting abilities that threaten to swallow him whole.

Red Hood immediately goes for the male lab-tech with his hand curled around a dial, the machine hooked up to Dick's wet, naked body with little wires; a guinea pig to be tested on. On his other side, Robin and Red Robin take flight in the opposite direction, seizing upon the smaller, female lab-technician, who puts up no resistance but gets knocked-out cold regardless. Given the circumstances, Bruce can't find it within himself to care how rough they are.

“Nightwing,” he says, barely more than a vulnerable whisper as he lightly taps Dick's cheek. “Come on, are you with me? Nightwing, open your eyes, please.” Bruce knows he sounds desperate, but right now he is. There's a thin sheen of sweat all over the young man's body and Dick is deathly pale, despite the high temperature he appears to be running.

On Bruce's left, Jason finishes zip-tying the unconscious lab-technician's hands together, and then—with barely more than a glance at Dick—heads straight back to the door they entered through with, “I'm going to get the fucking sadist who did this!”

Damian follows along right behind him wearing a scowl just as violent and vengeful.

Tim stays. If he sees Bruce's hands shaking, he's kind enough not to mention it.

“Help me get him down,” Batman grunts, trying to keep the edge of fear out of his voice for Tim's sake, as well as his own. “We've got to check for a pulse.”

They manage to undo the manacles shackling Dick to the ceiling and together they lower him slowly to the ground. Tim checks for a pulse and declares there to be one—albeit thready and weak—and suddenly, Bruce is overcome with the feeling that he's just stepped back from the ledge of a Gotham skyscraper. There's no time to relax or feel relief, but Bruce swallows hard and tries not to grip Dick's arm too hard in the moment. He sends a thankful prayer up to whatever god has got their listening ears on before the aftershocks and convulsions bring him crashing back down to reality. They're not in the clear yet.

“Hold his feet,” Batman orders, doing the same with muscular arms, pinning him to the ground and riding it out. “And don't get kicked in the face.”

Red Robin holds on tight, face contorting with both the effort of holding his older brother down as well as the mix of emotions it brings him to see the beating heart of empathy in their family jerk around on the dirty concrete, as though he were nothing more than a marionette on the unkind strings of a puppet-master.

Jason and Damian pick this time to re-enter the room. The words, “—he got away, that bastard,” already leaving the older's mouth before his eyes drop and fall to the scene before him.

“We have to get him to the cave.” Bruce says, grunting with the effort of holding his son down.

Jason takes the key for the Batmobile from Bruce's utility belt and then leaves the room for a second time, swearing expletives to no one in particular as he goes.

Damian kneels down beside Tim and spares one terrified look in Dick's direction as he carefully pulls out something purple from within his cape. A vial, Bruce can see, with translucent, purple liquid inside.

“I found this,” he says. “When Jason was going after the guy; I found this in his lab. There was one next to it, empty.” His eyes dart for a second time to his eldest brother, but this time Damian seems reluctant to pull them away again. “… I think it's what they used on D—Nightwing.”

Batman squints at it and then turns his head to Tim. “We'll need a lab analysis when we get back.”

Tim's nod is a singular downward jerk of his head. “Right.”

Finally, the violent convulsions stop and Bruce tentatively pulls his hands away from Dick's upper arms, noting the redness he's left there, the bruises that will form, no thanks to his too tight grip.

“Dick,” he tries again, whispering in a voice so quiet it's barely more than breathing. “Can you hear me?”

No response comes and Bruce's heart bangs furiously against his ribcage, feeling overwhelmingly useless.

Jason makes it back in record time.

“Got the car,” Red Hood says, skidding into the room breathlessly. “Waiting. Outside.”

In the time it takes to blink, Tim and Damian are on their feet, already halfway to the door. Bruce takes only a second longer to haul Dick into his arms and then half a moment more to be concerned over the heat radiating from his form.

“Blanket.” Jason states, forcing Bruce to look up when he shakes out something shiny and silver. It's for treating shock. Jason covers Dick's naked form with it and Bruce doesn't miss the way his face twists into that same fearful expression he saw upon Tim's face mere moments ago. Nor does he miss the way Jason's hands shake when he goes to wrap it carefully around his older brother.

They go out together, Jason just ahead of him, trailing behind Tim and Damian as they lead the way to the Batmobile with quickened footsteps and anxious gaits.

In his arms, Bruce's hands clutch slightly tighter around the unresponsive body, hoping with every fibre of his being that Dick will be okay.

* * *

The moment they reach the cave they clear a table and pull Dick onto it. Jason goes for an I.V. and Tim takes the sample from Damian before rushing away to test it. Amidst the flurry of movement, Bruce almost misses the faint moan that escapes Dick's lips until Damian draws his attention to it.

“Father!” he calls, perched upon a chair by Dick's side. “Grayson, he's making noise!”

Bruce's heart gives one almighty thump, like a heavy hammer banging against his ribs, and notices that the speed of Dick's breathing has increased, along with his temperature.

“He's burning up,” Bruce growls, alarmed, laying a hand across his eldest son's brow. “Damian, get some ice packs. We need to bring his fever down.”

Damian disappears, taking off running for the staircase. Bruce turns back to Dick just in time to see Jason jabbing the needle of the I.V. into his arm.

Apparently, the prick of the needle against his skin is enough to rise panic out of Dick. His incoherent mumbles gain just enough volume over his laboured breathing for Bruce to make out, _“… disown me… sorry… B–Bruce… I…__.”_

Through his teeth, Bruce sucks in a sharp inhalation, going very still and holding himself stiffly, listening hard to make out any more words in the string, though nothing else is discernible. Deep down, Bruce _knows _Dick doesn't really think that Bruce will disown him—_it's __just__ the fever, he's sure_—but, suddenly, he feels very much as though the young man has sidled up behind him and has quietly slipped a dagger between his shoulder-blades, piercing right through to his heart.

Softly, Bruce hushes him, slipping into the chair vacated by Damian and brushing back the sweaty bangs from Dick's forehead, fingers very faintly trembling and moving with only the most delicate of touches.

“I'm not going to disown you, Dick…” he says numbly, half-noting the way Jason has gone rigid beside him, glassily checking the drip. The young man's breathing picks up, a little whine escaping through clenched teeth. “Just breathe, chum.” He murmurs, gently running a thumb over Dick's temple. “It's gonna be okay.”

The harsh sound of laborious breathing reminds Bruce of all the times he's sat like this before and wondered and regretted over his decision to induct _children _into his vigilante way of life. Dick's not a child any more, but he will always be _Bruce's _child.

Damian returns a minute later, arms laden with five large ice packs, and behind him, Alfred, with several more.

The three of them work to strategically stack the ice packs around Dick to cool him, bringing Bruce a measure of relief at having something to do with his hands.

“He's going to be okay, isn't he?” says a small, quiet voice behind him; Damian.

Bruce is on the verge of answering when another voice gets there first, making him realise that the question was never meant for him.

“It's Dick,” Jason replies in a tone just as soft and subdued, out of place in his ordinarily crass timbre. It's said as though he expects those two words to be an answer enough, but his breathing hitches, and then, “He's got to be.”

The sound of Tim's footsteps approaching is what inspires Bruce to rise from the chair, tearing his eyes away from Dick so he can meet those of Red Robin.

“What do you have?” He asks gruffly.

Tim shakes his head. “It's like nothing I've ever seen before,” he says, a syringe in his hand, a clear liquid contained within. “But… I tried. I don't know if it'll be enough though. There might be side-effects. If we had more time…”

“We _don't_!” Jason snaps, taking an abortive half-step toward his younger brother. It's born out of fear, Bruce knows, but now is not the time to have his children at each other's necks. “So it either works or it doesn't, Replacement!”

“Jason.” He barks, a warning. Then, “Tim, whatever is in Dick right now, whatever they gave him, is killing him. His body is burning up. If you think this will work, then do it.”

Tim looks almost horrified at the weight of responsibility, the thought that Dick's life rests in his hands alone, but nods unevenly and moves to uncap the needle in his hand.

Damian holds Dick's arm steady whilst Tim finds the vein, and then, with the agonising speed of molasses, the watery substance disappears into Dick's arm.

The collectively held breath is released.

“Now what?” Jason asks, stepping closer.

Tim's mouth presses into a thin line, then, “Now, we wait.”

They don't have to wait very long.

“Something's wrong,” Bruce determines a minute later. Dick's lips have gone blue. “Quickly, we need to get rid of these ice packs.”

The five of them move the mountain of ice encasing Dick onto the floor, but the colour doesn't return to the young man's lips. Bruce reaches out a hand, fully expecting to feel skin the temperature of ice as he calls out, “Blankets! Quickly!” But when his hand connects with Dick's brow he jerks back with a hiss and, “I don't understand! He's only getting _hotter_, why is the fever _spiking?”_

A moan of pain escapes from the blue tinted lips and incoherent gasps inter-dispersed with muted, unintelligible words follow.

“What's he saying?” Damian demands, voice retaining too much uncertainty to sound anything but scared.

Bruce moves around to the other side again as Tim steps back, staring at the empty syringe as though it has betrayed him.

“Damian,” Bruce grunts as he takes up the space Tim has left open. “He's delirious, he doesn't _know_ what he's saying.”

“I don't understand,” Tim says then, barely louder than a whisper, glancing up at Dick and then back down to the needle clenched in his palm. “It should have worked!”

Bruce can see the desperation and frustration in Tim's eyes, but Jason's bark snaps his empathy for the boy back at bay. _Now is not the time_, he reminds himself, turning his attention to the limp body before him.

“He's barely breathing, old man!” Jason manages to choke out as a distinct wheeze rattles Dick's chest with every drawn breath. “_What do we do?_”

Bruce can hear it all for himself.

Pressing his fingers against the feverish neck, Bruce finds Dick's pulse, but just barely.

“Get the adrenaline, Jason, on the bench—” he orders, pointing in the direction and _hoping_ his instincts are right. “—quickly.”

Jason lunges for it, his long arms a blessing, jabbing it straight into Dick the moment he is back within arms reach of his older brother, the wheezing becoming more unsettling with every shallow inhalation.

Except then, Tim screams, reaching for the needle in Jason's hand with a jerky, _“NO!” _Though the protest comes too late to stop the sequence from happening; “That'll only stop his heart faster!” yells the former Robin. “Whatever was in that cocktail they gave him was _designed _to do this!”

The words have barely left Tim's mouth when Dick begins convulsing wildly.

“_Shit_, Bruce—!” Jason swears, going for Dick's upper chest in an effort to hold him still and pushing the littlest Robin away from the table. “Fuck, _Damian, get out of the _way!”

It's testament to how distraught Damian is feeling that he doesn't reply, or even acknowledge Jason's reprimand beside taking several steps back, watching the scene unfold with wide, frightened eyes. Once again, however, Bruce has no time to comfort his son, the matters at hand are more urgent.

Alfred grabs the young man's legs just as Tim moves around to help and declares, going pale, “He's going into cardiac arrest.”

Bruce, already noting this, begins CPR, not caring how distressed he sounds as he yells at his eldest son to start breathing again. “_Breathe, Dick, breathe—!” _The voice that leaves his throat doesn't sound or feel like his own.

_He is going to lose his son._

For a few long minutes, Bruce loses all sense of time and place, emotions distorting, his vision tunnelling. There's a moment with a lot of yelling and, vaguely, he remembers Jason going for the defibrillator, but other than that it all seems to be nothing more than a distinct _wrong _feeling and the sensation that someone has decided to rip his heart straight from his chest.

It disturbs him that when he comes to back to reality they've managed to stabilise Dick, yet Bruce has no memory of doing so. He doesn't mention this out loud as Tim sags into the chair beside him and leans his head against Bruce's arm for support.

“He'll be alright now, lad,” Alfred comforts a distraught and pasty looking Damian after they move Dick upstairs, who's seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Dick's limp form. “The worst of it is over.”

For everybody's sake, Bruce dearly prays the old man is right.

* * *

Bruce stays by his eldest all night, vigilantly watching for signs of distress, though there are none. However, it is between the time it takes for him to relieve himself and check in on all his other boys—sleeping soundly—that Dick chooses to wake into the world of the living.

The sight of sleepy sapphire eyes gives him pause by the door, long enough for him to stutter out Dick's name in shock.

Blue blinks back at him with a modicum of confusion, and then, because Bruce is holding at bay the wave of relief that greets him with the sight of his son's owlish stare, he crosses the room and asks, “Are you with me?”

For a moment, the light filtering in through the window serves to highlight the dust motes in the air, as well as the silence, until, “Yeah. What— what happened?”

Without his consent, a worried hand snakes up to Dick's forehead before Bruce can stop it, checking for any signs of his earlier fever.

“You don't remember?” He asks, the curl of anxiety returning.

Dick's face furrows in thought and, despite himself, Bruce thinks it's cute… and then his mind supplies, _you almost lost him, _and the anxiety folds over itself once again. His stomach feels like a piece of paper folded too many times, but he refuses to burden Dick with the knowledge that he is anything but unflappable as the young man continues.

“He… he said I would make a fun case study…”

Suddenly, Bruce wants to do nothing more than crush the boy to his chest and never let him go.

“I'm sorry.” Dick says, exhaling, and Bruce takes his hand and grips it tight.

“No,” he says, giving it a soft squeeze. “Don't do that. Don't apologise.”The words don't feel like his own, but they roll off his tongue with the ease of breathing and he _means them_. Dick shouldn't be apologising. Not to _him_. Bruce wasn't watchful enough, not vigilant enough, and because of it he nearly lost another of those most precious to him.

… he doesn't think he can bare it.

“It's my fault,” Dick presses, shaking his head, and Bruce can't stand the guilt on his face. “I was reckless again.”

Something lances through his heart, like a poison dart has connected straight to his aorta. He remembers that, the lecture he lambasted Dick with; _“__—__ridiculous, reckless!__—” _he'd all but yelled, worried then too about Dick's disregard for his own safety.

“Hey,” he says, a little too sharply. It brings Dick's attention back to him though and that's all the Bruce cares about. “I don't care about that right now.” _He just wants Dick to be safe, to be happy, to be _alive.

And then Dick makes a horrible choking noise and apologies splutter from his mouth like water from a geyser.

“Dick,” there's evident panic there, he can hear it himself, but he doesn't quite know how to stop this, how to let Dick know this isn't his fault. Bruce has never been good at using his words. It's his biggest downfall. “Chum, it's alright. You're okay, it's okay.” The hand he has around Dick's own tightens, but it has Bruce wondering if the action is like pulling a trigger when Dick visibly breaks.

“It's not okay,” he replies. “I let you down, __again__. I'm a __failure__. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know I was mad when Jason came along and replaced me as Robin, Bruce, but you were right. You've always been right, you saw it well before I did― I never deserved the mantle of Robin.”

For a split second, Bruce wonders where all this has come from, but then he quickly decides he doesn't care.

_How long has Dick been hurting? _He wonders instead, dragging the hand in his own up to his forehead and breathing in deeply, fortifying himself against the shame he feels for not noticing earlier.

And then, just like that, it all clicks.

_Oh._

_How long has he been blind to this?_

“No,” he whispers, putting every heart-felt emotion into the single word. It nearly breaks him alone, but he needs to finish this. Dick _needs _to know. Roughly, Bruce takes him in his arms and holds him tight, the young man going easily and falling limp in his arms, sagging against his chest. “No, Dickie, you're not a failure. _Never. _Is that what you think? Is that how I sound to you?”

_Is this all his fault?_

Something wet falls against Bruce's cheek, but when no reply comes, he squishes his eyes tight and practically sighs into Dick's ear.

“Oh chum,” he says. The truth is there, plain and in the open, it's been there this whole time and Bruce has just been so blind. “Why didn't you say something sooner?”

All he gets by way of reply is an apology.

“It's alright,” he hushes. “It's not your fault.”

Dick doesn't say anything back this time, but that's alright. Bruce just cradles him and gently rocks them side to side, the movement so slow that he wonders if Dick even notices. It's only when the soft sobs start to subside to every other minute that the older man pulls back, resting his forehead against his son's briefly, making sure Dick is still looking at him when he starts swiping at the wet tracks making rivers down the young man's face. _God, sometimes he still looks so young._ Sometimes it's so easy to place responsibilities on Dick's shoulders, because Bruce knows he can take it, but other times… other times he is reminded of the young boy he took in. The very first little Robin he settled in his nest.

“Just so you know,” he whispers, giving the faintest of smiles. “You will _always _be my little Robin. I know you don't think it right now, but you deserved that title more than anyone.”

It's only when Dick gives him the faintest smile in return that Bruce knows everything will be alright. The last wayward thought that flutters through Bruce's mind the moment he sees it is, _'Your first smile in weeks.'_ And he once again crushes Dick to his chest and holds him until dawn breaks through the window.


End file.
